In Which Stiles Bakes Cupcakes of Sexual Frustration
by Sahraylia
Summary: When Stiles comes back to Beacon Hills for spring break after his first semester at UC Berkeley, he expects to partake in an obscene amount of earth-shattering, mind-melting, toe-curling sex with his ultra-hot werewolf boyfriend, both on top of and against every available surface as many times as they can and as soon as fucking possible.


When Stiles comes back to Beacon Hills for spring break after his first semester at UC Berkeley, he expects to partake in an obscene amount of earth-shattering, mind-melting, toe-curling sex with his ultra-hot werewolf boyfriend, both on top of and against every available surface as many times as they can and as soon as fucking possible.

What he doesn't expect to find is that virtually every pack from the Pacific Northwest is taking up residence in Beacon Hills for some kind of annual bizarro inter-pack werewolf training conference thing, which-go fucking figure-Derek Hale (Stiles' aforementioned ultra-hot werewolf boyfriend) just so happens to be hosting this year, because he's the resident promising young Alpha or whatever.

This subsequently means that Stiles' genius plan to hold Derek hostage for days in their bedroom to have hot, desperate, oh-my-god-I-missed-you-so-much-college-was-the-dumbest-idea-ever-I'm-never-going-back sex is now no longer in the equation.

Fuck. Stiles'. _Life_.

So at first Stiles tries to just suck it up and think boner-killing thoughts while he helps Derek with the logistics of maintaining peace, order, happiness, and knowledge-sharing vibes amongst fifty odd multi-pack werewolves cramped together in one small California town for a week.

Yeah, easy. Werewolf politics= massive Stiles boner killer.

But then it's not so easy. Because on the third day the conference has moved into Alpha fighting techniques demonstrated outside the Hale house, and _of fucking course _ Derek is all shirtless and sweat-shined and oozing confidence the entire day as he leads the proceedings and flaunts his own moves against various opponents.

_Naturally_ he would be moving about the field with sinuous grace, his muscles rippling and bunching tight as he coils and releases his body in an unconscious dance of controlled aggression, of cool-eyed intent.

By the end of the day, Derek is dirty, and sweaty, and flecked with blood in places, and actually _glowing_ with pride over his pack's performance, and jesus fucking christ, Stiles wants nothing more than to climb him like a motherfucking tree.

But, you know, he _can't_, what with all of the strange werewolves milling in and out of their house at any given time. Plus, it would probably be kind of rude to steal the host of the very important, once-a-year-only inter-pack werewolf training conference thing just to screw his brains out. And then there's the extremely high probability that Derek would rather not be distracted by sex when he's supposed to be focusing on said conference thing.

Still, Stiles is a young, healthy, human male. And as a young, healthy, human male, he tends to get really stressed out when he's literally dying from sexual frustration thanks to his stupidly-attractive werewolf boyfriend, but remains unable to do anything about it.

So, at the end of that third day, while Derek and the rest of the Hale pack are out hunting for small game with a few of the outside packs, Stiles does what he always does when he's stressed out.

He bakes.

Okay, so normally when he gets sucked into stress-baking, it's during midterms or finals week at UC Berkeley. But these are special circumstances, and as such, they call for mountains of pink-frosted peanut-butter white chocolate chip cupcakes. Stiles internally dubs them his Sexual Frustration Cupcakes. He has a sinking feeling that he'll be baking a lot more of these in the immediate future.

Stiles has just shut the oven door on his twelfth batch of cupcakes when Derek enters the kitchen (which looks like some kind of cupcake bomb site) and promptly freezes in the doorway.

"Um," he says.

Stiles wipes his flour-covered hands on his apron, sweeps his bangs up and out of his eyes, and promptly moves to the island to pour some more cupcake batter into the next sheet.

"Baking," he murmurs, forcing himself to concentrate on what he's doing rather than the way that Derek is leaning uncertainly-but-also-sexily-and-without-a-shirt-ily against the wall in his peripheral vision.

"I can see that," Derek deadpans, though a tentative smile is quirking at the corner of his mouth. "Why are you baking?"

"Because I'm stressed," Stiles huffs, still refusing to look up at Derek. He has to get the batter level just right…

"Obviously," says Derek. Stiles can feel Derek move closer to him, slinking into his personal space with maddening ease. Stiles swallows.

"Why are you stressed?" Derek asks, and he's right next to Stiles now, his voice soft and low, intimate. He touches his fingertips to Stiles' wrist. Stiles sucks in a quick breath.

"Because of _you_," he hisses, and wow, woops, that came out snappier than he intended, because now Derek has stiffened and withdrawn his hand.

"No, I mean…" Stiles sighs, then finally raises his eyes to meet Derek's, and _shitfuck_, he was not prepared for that ice-blue gaze, or those half-parted lips. Dammit. He grounds himself by resting one hand on Derek's hip, and the other in his hair, like familiar puzzle pieces slotting together. He relaxes considerably.

"I mean that coming home to half a dozen strange werewolf packs after months of not seeing you is kind of driving me maybe a whole lot crazy."

Derek raises his eyebrows.

Stiles rolls his eyes.

"As in, 'I haven't had sex with you in months and now I have to watch you do sexy werewolf training things without jumping your fucking bones.'"

Derek's mouth falls open as he nods in sudden understanding. "Ah."

"Yeah."

There is a brief pause, then Derek grins. "Am I really that distracting?"

Stiles pouts and cuffs the side of Derek's head. "Yes, you asshole. Particularly with the whole no-shirt-ever thing."

Derek shrugs, bringing one hand up to trace his thumb over Stiles' collarbone. "It's more comfortable."

"Bullshit. I think you just like showing off your ridiculous Greek-god muscles. Some kind of Alpha preening thing."

Now Derek rolls his eyes. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm right," Stiles corrects. "Also horny. Did I mention the horny part? Because I'm really, really horny."

Derek hums, pressing closer against Stiles. "So, all of these cupcakes…"

"Are my Sexual Frustration Cupcakes. Stress-baked by yours truly because my boyfriend is unfairly hot and I can't take advantage of that at the moment."

Derek smiles, teeth flashing. "You can, actually."

Stiles blinks. "What?"

Derek cocks his head slightly to the left, and _oh_, those are his eyes flashing red. "You can…" he whispers, pushing Stiles gently against the kitchen island and angling his head down to nip at Stiles' throat. "Take… advantage…"

"Huh?" Stiles gasps, confused and just-a-bit distracted by Derek mouthing at his neck.

"I sent our pack home," Derek mutters, and Stiles whimpers a little when a hot tongue laves leisurely at his skin. "And then I asked the other packs to utilize the alternative accommodations we provided them for the night."

"Y-You did?" Stiles stammers, then moans. Derek has straddled one of his thighs, and now his rapidly growing hard-on is pressed against Derek's jeans. He can feel evidence of an answering hardness against his own thigh.

"Mmm," says Derek. He moves his lips up to Stiles' earlobe and sucks briefly on it. Stiles shudders. "I wanted to see you. We haven't been alone since you got back."

"Glad you noticed that too," says Stiles, the words rushing out in one breath. "Maybe we should do something about that."

Derek growls into Stiles' ear, and Stiles frames Derek's face with his hands before dragging him down to mold their mouths together. He sighs happily into Derek's mouth when Derek grips his ass with both hands and hefts him bodily up onto the kitchen island. They both groan in deep satisfaction when their cocks brush through their various layers of clothing.

"No more werewolf training conference things here, ever again," Stiles insists, raising his arms above his head as Derek unties the apron and tugs his t-shirt up and away. He slides their now-equally naked chests together, and they both groan when their nipples catch against each other.

"No arguments here," Derek concedes.

That last batch of cupcakes is never made, but the first dozen are heartily enjoyed by over fifty werewolves and a handful of humans the next day. And even though Stiles no longer has the original reason to make them, he bakes another dozen batches throughout the week by popular request.

Both Stiles and Derek nearly choke on their respective mouthfuls of cupcake on the fifth day when Scott vehemently proclaims that the baked treat is like "an orgasm in my mouth."


End file.
